Pet - Sex Stories

Pet

... inside. My owner is waiting, sitting on the couch across the room. He spots me and his eyes go wide for a moment as he takes me in and then smiles. He is pleased with me and, for the next space of time, I am his pet fox and he is my master. Lifting the little black leash in his hands, he pats the sofa with his free hand. He wants me to come over to him but instead, I eye him cautiously. “Here you go, come here.” Although he is a big man, he fills out the expensive suit well, my owner’s voice is soft, soothing almost. Crawling languidly, showing off how lithe I am, how graceful and animal like, I move down the wall on the opposite side of the room slowly. I come to a chair and, with a quick glance toward the couch, I slide my body along the wooden leg and then down the side, being sure to lengthen every muscle across my naked midsection. He is watching. His eyes appraise me as I move down the chair and then turn in between the legs, snaking through them. “Come on,” he pats the seat beside him; the leash’s clip jingles at the end. I stop and stare at the leash, my body curved against the inside of the chair’s legs. I arch my back. I feel like an animal now and a little thrill of excitement vibrates through my chest. “Here,” my owner moves to the edge of the couch. “Come here,” he coos. I dart from between the chair’s legs to the other side of the room near a large, potted plant, a tree of some sort. There is space between the plant and a bureau. I slip into it and turn around ...

... so that only my head is visible. I look at him. He is on the floor now, on his knees, and looking at me expectantly. “It’s okay, come here.” He sets the leash down and removes his coat, tossing it gently back onto the couch before picking up the leash again. I stare at him. His shirt is crisp with silver buttons that twinkle in the light. Picking up the leash he gently reaches toward me. I don’t like the leash, not until I am ready for it. Some animals do, some animals prefer their owners to leash them, but I am a fox, not a dog, or a pony. I am a fox; leashes only suit us when they suit us. It takes a few moments for him to realize what I am looking at, but when he does, he smiles and tosses the leash on the sofa behind him. “Oh, is that better?” I lick the back of my wrist and rub behind my left ear. My breasts, almost spilling out of the black lace bra, sway with the motion. I do love the way my body feels when I am on all fours, the way it moves and hangs. It’s so different than standing. My owner smiles and stretches. He looks like he just came from a board room. There are cuff links on his wrists that match his buttons. His shoes are ostrich leather and well-heeled. His face is smooth like he just came from a barber with a straight razor. His eyes are kind and there is a confidence, a strength in the way he holds himself. There is something about him that is comfortable though. Behind the expensive clothes and shoes, behind the watch, cuff links, and obvious stature in ...